by Margi Preus
Absently plucking at the leaves of a blueberry bush, she laughed a little to think of falling in love in a concentration camp—where you shivered on your hard plank bunk or the even harder floor of a barracks filled to bursting with starving women and girls, where the first thing every morning was a gruff man sticking his head in the door and shouting, “Got any?” Meaning, dead. And often there were . . .
“I’m hungree!” Pepi cried. “And I can’t find any blueberries!”
“Keep telling the story, Henni!” Simon said. “We can listen while we look for berries.”
“Stay close then, so I can speak quietly,” Henni said.
Lulu came and climbed onto Henni’s lap, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and gazed up into the older girl’s face. The others gave up on their futile hunt for berries and clustered around Henni, looking at her expectantly.
“Well,” said Henni, “remember that Hansel had left a trail of bread crumbs. But when he and Gretel went to look, they couldn’t find the crumbs. Hungry birds had eaten them all. There was no trail left.”
Pepi and Simon looked at Henni, their faces grave. Young as they were, they already had little furrows between their eyebrows when they frowned.
“What did they do?” Simon whispered.
“Did they have anything to eat?” Pepi asked.
“They did not have anything to eat,” Henni said. “And they looked and looked for the bread crumb trail, but soon realized that they were well and truly lost.”
Henni paused again and listened. All she heard was Lulu, earnestly sucking her thumb.
“On they walked until they came to a beautiful glade.” Henni gestured around her. “Like this one. Except there was a little cottage in it, and it was made of bread. The roof was made of cake, and the windows were made of clear sugar.”
Lulu pulled her thumb out of her mouth and said breathlessly, “And chocolate?”
“Yes, chocolate!” Henni said. “And peppermints and hard candies and sweets of all sorts stuck all over the cottage. Of course Hansel and Gretel were starving, so they began to stuff themselves with all these delicious things.
“‘Nibble, nibble, little mouse!’ came a voice.” Henni made her voice as scratchy as an old crone’s. “‘Who’s that nibbling at my house?’”
“Was it a witch?” Simon asked.
“It was a witch,” Henni said. “But Hansel and Gretel didn’t know that, and at first the witch acted nice and told them to come inside, and she fed them milk and pancakes with sugar, apples, and nuts. The children thought they were in heaven. But not for long, for soon she threw Hansel into a cage! She wanted to fatten him up before she ate him!
“But here is the thing about witches,” Henni went on. “They have a sense of smell like dogs do and can always tell when humans are near. But they have very poor eyesight. So when the witch went every day to check to see if Hansel was getting fatter, he stuck a chicken bone between the bars, and the witch felt the skinny bone instead. In this way, he put off getting eaten.
“But one day, skinny or not, she decided it was time to eat Hansel, and maybe Gretel as well. So she made a big fire in the oven. Then she told Gretel, ‘Climb in and see if the oven is hot enough.’
“Gretel saw what the old witch had in mind. She did not want to climb inside the oven, so she said, ‘I don’t know how to do that. How can I get inside?’
“‘Stupid goose!’ said the witch. ‘The opening is big enough even for me—see?’ and she swung the door of the oven open to show Gretel.
“Then Gretel gave her a shove, and the mean old witch went right inside and burned up! And that was the end of that old witch!”
Henni stopped, hoping they would accept that as the end of the story. She didn’t want to go on.
Lulu mumbled around her thumb, “Why did the witch want to eat Hansel? Why didn’t she eat her own house that was made of candy?”
“She hated children,” Pepi said.
“She was just bad and mean,” Simon said.
Henni listened to them, noticing the first bright little insects of spring fluttering in the sunbeams.
“Why are some people bad and some people good?” Lulu asked.
“I don’t know,” Henni said. She wished she knew. She wished she could tell the children, explain the world, but she didn’t understand anything about it.
“I’m going to be good,” Lulu said. “Like Monsieur Boulet.”
“Like Madame Desault,” said Madeleine.
“Like you, Henni,” said Pepi.
Henni felt tears spring to her eyes. She pressed her lips together. She did not want to cry. Not here! Not now!
“Why is it bad to be Jewish?” Pepi asked.
Again, Henni couldn’t answer. She herself had often felt ashamed of it, though she was old enough to know there was no reason to.
“But not here,” said Simon. “Here it is all right.”
The others nodded, agreeing.
“Then what happened, Henni? Tell the rest of the story!” Pepi said, bouncing on his knees in front of her.
“Shh,” said Madeleine, suddenly alert and listening.
“What?” Henni said.
Madeleine held up her hand and tilted her head toward town.
Everyone held their breath and kept perfectly still, even little Lulu. And then they all heard it.
The sound of young voices singing, “Au claire de la lune, mon ami, Pierrot . . .” Their housemates who had not had to hide were singing to let them know it was safe to come back.
“I’m hungreeee . . .” Pepi cried, running toward them. The others were already up and starting down the path toward the voices.
Henni rose and took Lulu’s hand. She was so weary. Weary with relief that the long day was coming to an end. And weary with relief that she hadn’t had to tell the end of the story, when Hansel and Gretel go home to their waiting, loving father. Henni knew that she and most of the other children would never see their fathers again.
Henni sang along with the voices coming up the forest path. “Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l’amour de Dieu,” she sang. “Open your door to me, for the love of God.”
6.
LATE MAY 1943 IN THE FOREST OUTSIDE LES LAUZES
THE MAGIC CIRCLE
There was, Max thought, something magical about this place, just as Henni had suggested. Branches curved over him and the still-sleeping form of his companion like the arches of a cathedral, or the vaulted ceiling of a mosque, or the graceful curving eaves of a temple. That was the nice thing about forests, he thought, they didn’t subscribe to any one religion or ideology. A forest was as accepting of one person sleeping in it as another, no matter who you were or what you believed.
Perhaps it was this that made the forest seem magical, or maybe it was the way the sunlight filtered through the pine boughs, making lacy patterns on his rumpled shirt, across the forest floor, and over the face of his still-sleeping friend.
The boy let out little puffs of air as he slept, and Max tried dropping bits of catkin fluff over his mouth at the precise moment of his exhalations, to see if his breath would lift the fuzz into the air. Instead, a bit of it ended up in the boy’s mouth, and he awoke, spitting.
“Something must be falling from the trees,” Max explained.
“Hmm,” said his friend, sounding unconvinced.
“I wonder what time it is.” Max squinted up at the sun glimmering through the tops of the trees.
“And what that sound is,” Max’s friend said.
Max heard it, too: a kind of distant creaking rattle coming toward them.
“I hope this place is as safe as Henni said it is,” Max said. “Even though she said there’s a policeman in town now.” Had that policeman received word about Max and his friend from the station in Lyon, where the police were actively looking for them? There was no way to know.
They had hiked their way up to the plateau, walking at night and sleeping in forests during the day. They’d arrived on the outskirts o
f Les Lauzes in the middle of the night, and Max had been stymied. Just how did he think he would find Henni?
Now there were voices. Girls’ voices.
The rattling, it soon became apparent, came from a wooden cart being pulled along the path by a couple of teenage girls. One of those girls—shoulders back, face forward, wearing a little crown of sunshine on her fair hair—looked just like Henni. Was he really seeing her, Max wondered, or had he conjured her out of the morning mist still lingering in the forest? Maybe this was a moment like others he’d experienced when—even though he knew she was miles away—it seemed as if she were right there with him.
“Is that someone you know?” his companion whispered, seeing Max staring, transfixed. The girls were past them now, moving away.
Max nodded and stood up, knowing then that the Henni he saw was not an apparition.
“Shall we call to them?” his friend asked, getting up.
“Wait,” Max said, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt. “She’ll think this is funny,” he said, and put his fingers to his lips.
»«
Henni and her friend had taken the path through the woods to get to a farm where they would pick up food for the Beehive. While Madeleine chattered away, Henni thought of Max, wondering where he was and hoping he was safe. She’d told him to come to Les Lauzes, but that was before the raids. Maybe, she thought, it wasn’t so safe here anymore. Ever since she and the children had had to hide in these woods, her heart beat a little faster whenever she walked through them. The tall, straight trees, standing in tidy rows like ranks of soldiers, unnerved her. She felt as if helmeted German soldiers hid behind the mossy green trunks. So, at first, when she heard the wolf whistle, every nerve end bristled.
Then she thought, Stupid boys from school.
Madeleine turned around to look, and Henni said, “Don’t turn around. It’s just boys from school being obnoxious.”
“I don’t know . . .” Madeleine said, turning back to Henni. “Maybe you should turn around.”
“No!” Henni said. “Don’t encourage whoever it is.”
“I really think you should look,” Madeleine urged.
Henni turned slowly to see Max grinning at her, his bright eyes managing to shine through the smudgy lenses of his glasses, which teetered a little lopsided on his face. His face was lit with a smile as if he had just happened on the best moment of his life.
THE SOLICITATION
Céleste was hunting for asparagus in the overgrown grass along one of the stone walls outside of town when Jules’s head popped up from behind the wall. She was so startled she dropped both the asparagus and the knife she’d been using to cut it.
“Jules!” she said.
“Shh!” he hissed, scanning the roadway behind her. “Any sign of Perdant? He’s trying to get me to spy for him.”
She looked over her shoulder. “No,” she said. “Are you in trouble?”
“Not yet.” He climbed over the wall to where she stood. “Or, well, maybe. I don’t want to find out.”
“How do you do that, anyway,” Céleste asked, “popping up out of nowhere like that?”
“It’s my superpower,” Jules said. “I’m like Superman!”
“Who?” Céleste muttered, now on her hands and knees hunting for the knife and the thin asparagus stalks—nearly invisible in the tall green grass.
“Superman! The man of steel? Faster than a speeding bullet?” Jules said.
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s American. In a comic book. He always shows up when people need his help.”
“Well, Superman, I could use some help finding the asparagus you made me lose.”
Jules dropped down into the grass and began scurrying around on his knees.
“Be careful!” Céleste admonished. “There’s a knife, too—and the blade is open! But maybe that doesn’t matter if you’re—what did you say—a man of steel?”
Jules’s hand appeared above the grass, waving several stalks of sandy asparagus. “This it?” he said.
Céleste took the precious stalks, stood, and tucked them into her skirt pocket.
Still on his hands and knees, Jules said, “I have a message for you. Someone wants to meet you at the Château de Roque. Alone. You’re supposed to go alone.”
“That place?” Céleste said. “It’s been empty forever.”
“Yeah, that place,” Jules said.
“Well, who? Who wants to meet me there?”
“I’m not supposed to say.”
“Are you hiding down there or are you looking for my knife?” Céleste said.
“Both,” Jules said.
“I’m not going to go to a creepy old abandoned château all by myself if I don’t even know who I’m supposed to meet!” Céleste cried.
Jules’s finger emerged from above the grass, beckoning her to crouch down near him. When she did, he whispered, “It’s Léon.”
Well, well, Céleste thought. Léon.
“And here’s your knife,” Jules said, handing her the knife, its blade safely tucked away in its wooden handle.
Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he was gone again.
»«
Later, Céleste wheeled her bike up the drive to the château. It was really just a path now, the drive overgrown with long grass and wildflowers. Ahead, there was a grove of sadly neglected fruit trees, a garden taken over by Scotch broom, and the imposing, castle-like house, its wooden shutters hanging from their hinges. Its turret was covered in old vines, its majestic front steps covered with moss and wild violets.
She’d heard there’d been heartbreak here: a young man killed in a long-ago war. The parents’ hearts broken, the young wife moved away. Nothing to show that children had ever lived here. No diapers hanging on a clothesline, no little bicycle or pram parked outside the door. She realized now that at every other farm on the plateau, what you saw was evidence of children. Perhaps, Céleste thought, it is all these children everywhere—never out of our sight—that keep compassion intact, the path clear.
She propped her bike against the stone wall, then pushed open the creaking gate.
Léon appeared from the orchard. His clothes were rumpled and a bit battered, and his face sunbrowned, even though winter was barely over. Was that a bit of a beard on his chin? Then she saw the pistol at his side and realized—
“You’ve joined the maquis!” she cried. “Why? You’re too young!”
“There are plenty of boys younger than me here,” he said, pointing his barely bearded chin toward the woods beyond.
This made Céleste immeasurably sad and tired. She felt like an old grandmother whose grandchildren had gone to war. “But you were doing good work in Les Lauzes. Why isn’t that enough?”
“The time has come to really serve my country. It’s happening soon, Céleste, the liberation!” He clutched her shoulders, his eyes bright with optimism—or something—fatigue, maybe; Céleste couldn’t tell.
“Germany’s been beaten back at the Eastern Front. The Allies have taken Tunisia. Next they’ll move into Italy. From Italy to France, Céleste. I want to be part of the liberation. I want to help make it happen.”
“I’m so afraid for you,” Céleste said.
“Don’t be afraid.” Léon looked into her eyes. “This is what I want to do. It feels right.”
Céleste pressed her lips together to keep herself silent.
“We all must do everything we can, don’t you agree?” Léon said.
Céleste hesitated before she said yes.
“Would you be willing to do something for us?”
“Why don’t you ask Sylvie?” Céleste asked. “Is it because she’s your sister, so you don’t want to put her in danger?”
“She doesn’t approve of what we’re doing. She believes we should continue with nonviolent methods, like our pastors advocate.”
“Well, what makes you think I don’t agree with her?”
“I think you want to do
something to help. I think you always have. I’m just giving you the opportunity. I’m not going to argue with you about the right or wrong of armed resistance. I know Pastor Autin advocates using only ‘weapons of the spirit’ in our fight against the Nazis, but those kinds of weapons only go so far.”
“Do they?” Céleste challenged him. “Guns and tanks will rust, break, and eventually turn to dust. But the spirit prevails.”
“Nice thought, but I just don’t believe the spirit alone will prevail against the Wehrmacht. In this case we have to fight firepower with firepower. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to carry or fire a gun; I’m not asking you to kill anyone. It’s only to carry a little message. Can you do it? Will you do it?”
»«
All the way back to town, Céleste rode slowly along the path through the forest, barely noticing the spattering of sunlight on the ferns, the fluttering of a white moth, a purple butterfly. She’d have to give Léon an answer soon, but she needed time to think about it.
It was true that she had long wanted to do something, but now at the thought of it her heart drummed mercilessly inside her chest—so hard she could barely pedal her bicycle. She was too frightened. She would mess up. Something would go wrong. She’d always imagined that she would get involved in dangerous work someday, but that was imagining herself as some other person—someone more like Sylvie: confident, strong, a little bigger maybe, someone brave. She’d never been any of those things. And she still wasn’t.
She turned into the forest, so deep in thought that she hardly noticed the roots and stones over which the bicycle bounced.
Just ahead of her, two girls stepped onto the path, and Céleste lurched to a stop. “Henni!” she squeaked. “Madeleine! What—?” She cut her question short when she noticed the two young men standing in the forest not far away.
Henni breathlessly rushed through an explanation, ending with the plea, “Can you help us?”
Céleste almost couldn’t answer, she was struck so forcefully with a kind of realization—something that should have been obvious, but somehow she had not really understood it in the depths of her heart until this moment. Some people, she realized, were having a very different experience than her own. While she had been fretting over whether she was too fearful to do this or that, people like Henni and the young men she wanted to help lived in fear every single moment. They had no choice but to be brave. They had no choice but to take action.